


With a Pinch of Sugar

by Erushi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Baking, Cake, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 00:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erushi/pseuds/Erushi
Summary: A college AU, in which Victor feels Very Strongly about the cakes that are appearing mysteriously in the common kitchen of his dorm.And  possibly about the cute student in his TA class, too.---For the Catfish Prompt Party on Tumblr: "How about a prompt that has to do with cake :)"





	With a Pinch of Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Catfish Prompt Party on Tumblr](https://catfishpromptparty.tumblr.com/): "How about a prompt that has to do with cake :)"
> 
> I'm sorry it's taken me almost three months!

The cakes first appeared on a Wednesday.

In too much of a hurry, Victor barely glanced at the muffins that had been left on the counter of the common kitchen. Yet, they were muffins – chocolate chip and still warm, their domes raised and inviting – and there was even a note, propped against the tray encouraged the reader to _take one please_ , and so, he did: snagging one on his way out again after filling his tumbler with instant coffee.

He ate it as he walked to the college campus, peeling the waxed paper away carefully before tearing bite-sized chunks of cake with his fingers. By the time he reached the classroom, the muffin was long gone, and his first class as a TA was about to start. He brushed past Yakov apologetically and took a seat near the front of the lecture hall, where he waited for Yakov to introduce him.

It was a while before he thought about the muffins again.

When Victor did remember the muffins, it was almost four o’clock and he was done for the day. On impulse, he veered from his usual path to his room, making detour to the common kitchen instead. He discovered then that all the muffins were all gone, which was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected. His muffin had been delicious, after all. Besides, he didn’t know of a college student who could refuse an offer of free food.

Someone had washed the tray which had contained the muffins and set it on the rack by the sink to dry. The note, however, still lay on the counter. Victor picked it up curiously, studying it properly now that he had the time. He concluded that it held no identifying clues about the identity of the baker, besides the fact that he or she, whoever they were, had a propensity to slant their alphabets to the right.  

Disappointed, Victor replaced the note on the counter.

=-=-=

The second time, it was a plate of brownies.

Victor drew up short in the doorway and blinked, struck for a moment by the peculiar sensation of déjà vu. The plate had been placed in the same spot which the tray of muffins had occupied only days ago, and there was another note in the same, neat script, again extolling the reader to _take one_.

This time, Victor took two. He ate them as he hurried to class and discovered that they were perfect – their edges crisp, their centers gooey. For the rest of the day, Victor’s fingers carried the faint scent of cocoa.

=-=-=

The third time was vanilla cupcakes, topped with piped swirls of buttercream; the fourth, strawberry tarts with crimped pastry shells. By the fifth time – muffins once again, but blueberry instead of chocolate, and so delicious that Victor had toyed briefly with the idea of sneaking back for a _third_ – Victor was starting to think that that there was a Thing going on.

The problem was that there wasn’t any pattern to it. The cakes were as likely to appear on a Monday as they were on a Friday. Most times, Victor discovered them on his way to fill his coffee tumbler before heading out to class. However, on the last occasion – the sixth time – Victor had stumbled into the kitchen at five in the morning, desperate for more coffee after an all-nighter (damn Yakov and his deadlines), to find a freshly baked loaf of lemon drizzle cake, cooling on the kitchen counter.

It was altogether disconcerting.

He told Chris as much over the phone, in between bites of the lemon drizzle cake.

On the other end of the line, Chris sighed. “Victor,” he began, and Victor could almost picture Chris pinching the bridge of his nose, “it’s six fucking a.m. in the fucking morning.”

“But you were awake already,” Victor pointed out reasonably. Chris always woke up early to squeeze in a run.

“Not to listen to you talk about… whatever it is,” Chris huffed.  

“But this wouldn’t have been a problem if I didn’t have to move back into the dorms,” Victor huffed. “And I wouldn’t have had to move back into the dorms if you hadn’t suddenly decided to move in with your boyfriend. So this is as much your problem as it is mine.”

“I don’t even see how free cake is a problem,” Chris complained.

“It just is,” Victor insisted.

Chris sighed again. For a while, neither of them spoke, Victor too focused on chasing down the last of the cake crumbs on his plate, and Chris presumably putting on his running shoes, if the noises he Victor was hearing over the phone were anything to go by. There was a sound of a door opening and shutting, and the clink of keys. Finally, Chris spoke again. “So what is it that’s really bothering you?”

Victor thought. “It just doesn’t feel right, you know?”

“I really don’t,” Chris said dryly.

“Shut up,” Victor retorted without heat.

Chris laughed. “Well?”

Victor frowned, pursing his lips. “It’s just… no one knows who the baker is, so I can’t even thank them properly. And it seems, I don’t know, sort of lonely, I guess. Baking in the middle of the night.”

Chris hummed. “Well, here’s an idea, genius. _Write to him_.”

“What?”

“Write to them. You said they leave those notes, yes? So write back.”

Victor felt the grin spread slowly across his face. “Chris, I love you.”

“Already attached,” Christ replied cheekily. “And stop calling me so early in the morning, asshole,” he added, before hanging up.

Victor laughed as he lowered his cell phone from his ear. Then, he grabbed a pen, and returned to the kitchen.

The note was still there, propped against the cooling rack where the mysterious baker had left it. Victor flipped the paper around and scrawled, _Hi_.

He hesitated, a dozen other words poised at the tip of his pen. In the end, however, he thought the better of it, and replaced the note against the cooling rack before going bed.

=-=-=

The next Monday brought with it a tray of millionaire shortbread and, in a break from the usual pattern, _two_ notes.

The second piece of notepaper had been folded twice, and tucked so discreetly beneath a corner of the tray that Victor almost missed it. When he unfolded the note, he recognised his handwriting, his impulsive greeting, and he stared at it in confusion for a moment before he realised that there was another word written beneath his: _Hi_.

Grinning to himself, Victor tucked the second piece of notepaper into his pocket. He stuffed a piece of shortbread into his mouth. Then, he flipped the first piece of notepaper over, fished a pen out from his bag, and scribbled, _Delicious <3_.

That done, he returned the paper to its original position, and grabbed another piece of shortbread before heading for class.

Over the course of the day, Victor read and re-read the note, again and again, unfolding the paper each time he had minute to spare and murmuring the reply beneath his breath like a one-word poem. He grew familiar with the slope of the _H_ , with the slight smudge of ink where the _i_ was dotted, and was entirely too charmed by the careless smear of caramel in a corner of the sheet.

There was a knock on the door of his office.

Victor startled. Hurriedly, he shoved the note into an open drawer and slammed it shut.

“Come in,” he called, just as the door opened. He thought he recognised the student who hesitated in the doorway. “Katsuki, isn’t it? From Yakov’s class on Wednesday, nine o’clock? Business Law and Ethics?”

Katsuki shuffled into his office, shutting the door behind him but not taking a seat until Victor gestured for him to do so. “Yeah. Um. Yakov said you were the one who set the quiz last week…”

Victor’s brow rose. “What about it?”

“I’m not sure I agree with how you scored the third question,” Katsuki blurted, finally looking up from his lap. He met Victor’s gaze squarely. “I think the article supports a different interpretation.”

Victor felt the corners of mouth twitch as he took the proffered quiz sheet from Katsuki. “Alright,” he said, biting his lower lip to hold back a smile as he began to peruse Katsuki’s answer, “let’s take a look.”

=-=-=

The next morning, a large carrot cake greeted Victor in the kitchen. The outside of the cake was covered with a thick layer of cream cheese frosting, its top scattered with a generous handful of coarsely chopped walnuts. The mysterious baker had thoughtfully left a knife beside the cake, for the hungry (or just greedy) to cut themselves a slice. That was how Victor discovered that the inside of the cake was wonderfully moist, and heavy with cinnamon and plump raisins.

Like the day before, there were notes now: the usual, and the one on which Victor had written on less than twenty-four hours ago. The new words read, simply, _Thank you._

Unthinkingly, Victor wrote on the first sheet of paper, _Student?_

Then, still smiling, he took his slice of cake and the second note back with him to his room, to carry on with the outline of his dissertation.

And if he stopped every now and then to line up and re-read the two notes he had received so far from the mysterious baker – well, there was no one around to judge him too heavily for that.

=-=-=

_Yes,_ came the reply on Friday, together with a baked cheesecake. _You?_

_Post-grad,_ Victor wrote back. _Law._

_Hospitality_ , was the response, four days later.

Which explained the baking, Victor thought as he bit into a red velvet cupcake, even if it did not explain why. Two cupcakes in and no closer to a clever response, Victor decided that he might as well ask.

There were no new bakes in the week that followed, and for a moment, Victor wondered if he had, in asking his question, asked too much. Then, on Friday: _I get anxious. The baking helps._

Standing in the common kitchen, surrounded by the aroma of freshly baked banana bread, Victor felt something in his chest tighten.

Victor wrote.

=-=-=

“There are cookies in your kitchen,” Chris announced as he slammed the door of Victor’s room open.

Victor spun around on his chair and glared. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

“ _You_ never knocked,” Chris shot back, which Victor felt was terribly unfair, because –

“Only for the first month we lived together, until I walked in on you and…” he trailed off, his gaze alighting on the cookie in Chris’ hand. “Wait, cookies, in the kitchen?”

“They look homemade,” Chris confirmed.

Victor swore, and pushed himself off his chair in such a hurry that the chair scooted back on its castors, hitting the edge of his desk with dull _thud_. He hurried to the common kitchen, where there was indeed a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Without thinking, Victor lifted the plate up and extracted the now-regular second note, which he unfolded eagerly.

“I see you took my advice,” Chris said, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. Victor had not realised that Chris had followed him.

“Stop trying to read over my shoulder,” Victor sniped absently. He folded the note again, and grabbed a couple of cookies for himself. He took a large bite from one of them as he led Chris back to his room.

“No, really,” Chris pressed as Victor shut the door behind them. “I take it that it’s going well?”

“What do you mean?” Victor hedged, as he slipped the latest note into the cereal box which he had re-purposed, to join all the other notes before it.

“Your mysterious baker.”

“What about him?”

“‘ _Him’_?” Victor could hear the smirk in Chris’ voice.

“Shut up,” he retorted, feeling oddly protective, all of a sudden, of his baker. (Yes, his.)

“So it _is_ going well.”

“I’m writing to him,” Victor conceded.

“And it’s going well.”

“What are you, some kind of broken record?” Victor glared as Chris began to laugh. “Yes,” he huffed, “I suppose it’s going alright.”

Because it was, for all that Victor was still no closer to finding out who his baker was. But he knew enough to know that his baker was a _he_ , and that _he_ was majoring in hospitality so that he could take over his family’s B &B back home. In return, Victor had shared with him his reasons for deciding to switch from sports science to law, about how he hoped to find a place in one the New York white-shoe firms.

His baker favored tea, while Victor preferred coffee. When his baker admitted to liking chocolate fudge cake best, Victor professed an undying love for the Napoleon cake. He learned that the both of them would rather dogs over cats, and no less than seven notes on the merits of poodles were exchanged. They discussed classes, friends, animals, bakes, families, dreams, politics, the _world_ , all of it crammed on slips of lined notepaper.

(They discussed their fears, once.

_Failure_ , Victor’s baker had written, and Victor understood.

_I don’t think you’re weak_ , he wrote back.

The next note made no reference to their previous discussion. It was, however, accompanied by a towering Napoleon cake.)

“Have you met him yet?” Chris asked, his tone curious. He made a beeline for Victor’s chair, and promptly kicked his feet up onto Victor’s desk.

Victor shrugged. “Haven’t thought about it,” he lied.

Chris cocked his head. “You should.”

“It just feels… weird.”

“It’s almost the end of the semester. You’ve been writing to him for _months_.”

Victor shrugged again, spreading his hands out helplessly. “What if it makes things awkward?” He suddenly became aware of Chris’ posture. “And feet, off.”

Chris rolled his eyes, but obligingly dropped his feet back onto the floor. Immediately, he began to toy with the papers on Victor’s desk, selecting a stapled sheaf at random for closer study. “Aren’t you even curious?”

“Stop that,” Victor grumbled, reaching over to pluck the sheaf of paper from Chris’ fingers. “Leave my stuff alone.”

“That’s not your name on top,” Chris pointed out.

“It’s not. It’s from a student in one of the classes I’m helping Yakov TA.”

Chris hummed. “When did TA-ing include helping your students review their essays?”

“Not _all_ my students. Katsuki’s… different.”

Chris waggled his brows.

“Shut up, not like that,” Victor laughed, smacking the back of Chris’ head lightly with Katsuki’s essay before slipping the paper into his book bag. “I think he’s actually interested in the subject. He asked me to be his tutor.”

“Pre-law?”

“I never asked.”

“Maybe he’s just interested in getting into your pants.”

Victor snorted. “What’s with you and sex?” he complained good-naturedly while Chris laughed. “Anyway, did you come here today just to bother me, or did you actually want something?”

“Brunch,” Chris declared.                            

“Can’t,” Victor replied, half-apologetically. “I already said that I’d meet Katsuki to go through his essay before this term’s finals.” He added a notebook and a couple of pens into his book bag, then snagged a textbook from his shelf.

“Or maybe you’re trying to get into his pants.”

Victor sputtered. “You’re terrible.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as Chris continued to smirk at him knowingly. “Fine, he’s cute and funny. And he actually cares about the subject, which is more than can be said of most of my class.”

“But…?”

“But I’m his TA.”

Chris sighed gustily. “It was worth a try.”

“For brunch, or to pry into my dating life?”

“Why not both?” Chris grinned cheekily.

Victor threw a pillow at him.

=-=-=

Still, Chris hadn’t been wrong.

It was funny, Victor reflected, how you could feel close to someone without ever having met them.

=-=-=

He stopped by the common kitchen again on his way out, pen in hand. He grabbed another cookie, and bit into thoughtfully as he considered his next reply.

At some point, their conversation had veered towards their plans after the term’s finals. Victor had already decided that he’d be staying in town during the break that followed. His baker was still deliberating between staying too, and helping out at his family’s B&B back home.

Victor had been meaning to tease him about missing his bakes if he went home. He clicked the nib of his ballpoint out.

_We should meet_ , was what he wrote instead.

He wrote it before he could allow himself to dwell too much on it, and he felt inexplicably winded when he was done.

Chris, Victor thought absently, would be proud.

(It was funny how you could maybe, just maybe, miss someone without ever having ever met them.)

=-=-=

The rest of the week passed without any further bakes, as did the week which followed. Victor tried not to read too much into it.

The next cake finally appeared on the morning before the end-of-semester exams officially began. It was a lemon meringue cake, its layers of sponge cake delicate beneath the meringue curlicues, its curd mouth-wateringly tart.  This time, there was only one note.

Victor tried not to read too much into that either.

=-=-=

Chris was in his room again.

“For someone who ditched me to move in with his boyfriend, you sure come by a lot,” Victor remarked snidely.

Chris shrugged, spearing another forkful of cherry pie. “This is good. Sure you don’t want some?”

“I thought you were on a diet.”

“Cheat day,” Chris replied succinctly, somehow managing to flip Victor off even as he helped himself to yet another bite of pie.

Victor ignored him as he tried to focus on the draft outline of his dissertation. Already, he was regretting his decision to center his dissertation on the complexities of constructive trusts.

“You’re moping,” Chris declared.

“I’m not,” Victor retorted.

There had only been one note with the cherry pie too.

“Hm,” Chris said, as he scraped his fork noisily across his plate.

“Are you done?” Victor sniped.

“I guess I am.”

“Then go home. Unlike you, I’m busy.”

“Only if you agree to go out with me tonight.”

Victor gave up on his paper, and twisted around in his seat. “What?”

“Go out with me tonight,” Chris repeated. “We’re throwing a party to celebrate the end of our stage run, and Masumi’s out of town.”

Chris was a member of a dance group which, to Victor’s knowledge, occasionally performed in the stage productions at the local theater house. Now that Chris had mentioned it – “That Zorro musical?”

“Which you didn’t watch,” Chris said meaningfully as he pointed his fork at Victor.

Victor made a face. “I already apologised for that. Besides,” he added, crossing his arms, “the answer’s still _no_.”

“Come on.” There was a hint of a whine now, in Chris’ voice.

“Busy, remember?” That, and he just did not feel like any company but his own, right now. He knew that he was being ridiculous, he knew, but – and Victor huffed ruefully, resting his elbow his desk and propping his chin on his palm – he just wasn’t minded to care. He arched a brow pointedly.

Chris, being Chris, ignored him blithely. “It’s the end of the semester,” he wheedled. “You have all of break to work on your paper.”

Victor glared.

Chris pouted.

Victor pinched his nose bridge and sighed. “Only because I don’t want you to beg,” he relented.

Chris laughed. “You wish you could hear me beg,” he winked, setting the now-empty plate and the fork on Victor’s desk. “I’ll pick you up tonight,” he said as he stood up and stretched, before heading for the door. “Dress sharp.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Victor waved his hand airily. Then, finally noticing the soiled dish which Chris had left on his desk, Victor grabbed a pen and threw it at Chris’ departing back. “And wash your own plate!”

=-=-=

They got to the party – a converted warehouse downtown which Chris said that the dancers usually rehearsed at – a little late. Victor braced himself as he allowed Chris to tug him into the crowd. Two drinks, he told himself silently; three, at the very most, before he would begin to make his excuses.

The first group of people whom Chris introduced him to was a blur of faces. Victor smiled politely, laughed at the right moments, and offered a silent prayer of thanks when Chris deemed it about time for them to move on. There was a second group, and a third, and the fourth –

“Katsuki?” He could hear the surprise in his voice.

“Nikiforov?” Katsuki, at least, looked equally stunned to see Victor at the party.

“I didn’t realise that you knew each other,” Chris remarked, peering at both of them curiously.

“I'm his TA,” Victor replied absently. It was his first time seeing Katsuki in a truly social setting, and Katsuki looked… different.

There was a pregnant pause. Victor only realised that he was staring when Katsuki ducked his head shyly, a pink flush blooming on his cheeks as he dropped his gaze. Jesus. Victor had never realised how long Katsuki’s lashes were.

Beside them, Chris exhaled loudly. “Huh,” he said, when they turned to look at him. “You’re _that_ student.”

“‘ _That’_ student?’” said the man whom Katsuki had been talking to, before Chris and Victor had come over. Victor watched with interest as Katsuki elbowed the man, who ignored Katsuki blithely.

 “I didn’t know that you knew each other,” Victor said quickly, before the conversation could lapse into an awkward silence.

“That’s because I only know Yuuri as _Yuuri_ ,” Chris retorted.

“We met at a pole-dance class,” the other man added.

“Phichit!” Katsuki exclaimed.

“What?” Phichit shrugged, holding his palms out innocently.

“Not in front of – ” Katsuki hissed, breaking off as he darted a quick glance at Victor.

“Victor Nikiforov,” Victor said, holding his hand out to Phichit, who took it. His grip was firm.

“Phichit Chulanot,” Phichit replied. “I’m his roommate. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Katsuki made a strangled noise.

The corners of Victor’s lips twitched as he released Phichit’s hand. “Good things only, I hope.”

“That’s enough,” Katsuki declared, wrapping his fingers around Victor’s arm. He began to tug Victor away from the group. “Chris, I’ll catch up with you later.”

Now that Katsuki was closer, Victor could smell the alcohol on his breath. It struck him then that there was, perhaps, more than one reason for the flush on Katsuki’s cheeks. “Where are you taking me?” he asked, half-curious, as he allowed himself to be herded away.

“To get a drink,” Katsuki declared. “Look, we’re both empty.” He tapped his empty plastic cup against Victor’s stumbling a little as he did so. Unthinkingly, Victor grabbed Katsuki’s other arm with his free hand, steadying him.

“We are,” he agreed easily. “But should you be drinking more?”

“Not drunk yet,” Katsuki insisted, shaking Victor’s hand off.

“Alright.” He trailed after Katsuki to the corner of the warehouse where the drinks had been set out. “So,” he added, watching as Katsuki filled their cups almost to their brims, “pole-dancing, huh.”

“Phichit talks too much,” Katsuki grumbled darkly.

“Chris has mentioned it to me before. Tried to persuade me to join him.”

Katsuki cracked a grin as he handed Victor’s cup to him. “Phichit and I met Chris at a taster class. Chris and I still go for classes. We joined the troupe together.”

Victor accepted his cup from Katsuki carefully, nodding his thanks before taking a sip. “I knew Chris danced, but I wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who did.”

Katsuki took a large gulp from his cup. “What,” he said, slanting a look at Victor which, with any other person, Victor would have called _flirtatious_ , “I don’t seem the type?”

Victor laughed ruefully. “Just never really thought of any of Yakov’s student’s that way.” On impulse, he drained his cup. He caught Katsuki’s gaze as he lowered it. “I’ve never seen you without glasses before.”

“Contacts,” Katsuki replied. He held Victor’s gaze for a beat, before his eyes landed on Victor’s now-empty cup. He blinked owlishly. “Oh, guess I’d better catch up.”

“Or you could just top me up,” Victor suggested, holding his cup out. Katsuki’s fingers brushed against the back of Victor’s hand as he took it, a fleeting caress.

“Here,” Katsuki said, returning Victor’s cup to him a moment later. There was a drop of beer on Katsuki’s thumb, and Victor watched with sudden concentration as the pink tip of Katsuki’s tongue darted out to lick it off.

Automatically, Victor raised his cup to his lips and took a large gulp. He stopped counting his drinks after that.

=-=-=

At some point in the night, there was a dance-off. Chris told him it happened regularly their parties, and that Victor should just enjoy the show. Victor had laughed, moments before he allowed Katsuki to tug him onto the dancefloor too.

It turned out to be a good decision.

Afterwards, they drifted towards one of the more secluded corners of the warehouse.

Katsuki’s breath was hot where it gusted over the crook of Victor’s neck. His skin was still sweat-damp from the last round of breakdancing, almost feverish beneath Victor’s palm when Victor slid a hand up the hem of Katsuki’s t-shirt.

“Mmm.” Katsuki gave Victor’s neck a final nuzzle, nosing up to brush his lips along the line of Victor’s jaw before leaning back. He regarded Victor through hooded eyes. “Nikiforov.”

Victor chuckled. “I think we’ve reached the stage when you should just call me Victor, _Yuu-ri_ ,” he winked, lilting Katsuki’s first name.

“Hm, Victor,” Katsuki murmured, his voice husky. “Victor, you’re so hot,” he added, with the earnestness of the inebriated. He did not comment on Victor’s use of his first name.

Victor’s lips curved.

Yuuri’s hair had been slicked back when at the start of the party, but it was dishevelled now, the loose locks tumbling messily over his forehead. It made Victor want to rumple him up further, and so, Victor did, reeling Yuuri in until their bodies were flush against each other’s. He buried his fingers into the hair on the back of Yuuri’s skull, urging Yuuri’s head back as he slanted his mouth over Yuuri’s, swallowing Yuuri’s whimper.

Yuuri ground his hips against Victor’s in response.

Time slipped by. For a while, Victor was only conscious of the feel of Yuuri in his arms, of the way he moaned and the way he crowded into Victor’s space, as though the inches between them were still too far.

It was a while before he realised that Yuuri was no longer clutching the front of his shirt, but trying to push him away.

Confused, Victor let his arms fall to his sides. Immediately, Yuuri sprang back.

“I – ” Victor stammered, but Yuuri was already bolting for the exit of the warehouse.

Victor hesitated. Then, still unsure, he trailed after Yuuri to the street outside. The immediate front of the warehouse was deserted, but he could hear the sound of someone retching in the alley to the side. Grimacing, Victor followed the noise. He found Yuuri, hunched over a drain.

“Sorry,” Yuuri rasped, when he was finally able to speak. He looked miserable.

Victor started to reach out to soothe Yuuri’s back, but thought the better of it. He clenched his fist uselessly. “Should I get you some water?” he asked instead.

“I’ll be fine,” Yuuri slurred. He straightened shakily. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to keep apologising.”

“You should go back. Join the rest of the party.”

Victor shrugged. “Nah. Someone should stay with you. Make sure you’re okay.”

Yuuri scrubbed his palms on the front of his jeans. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

“But I made things awkward.” A petulant whine had crept into Yuuri’s voice.

“Why don’t I take you back to your dorm,” Victor suggested instead.

A shuddering, dry heave. “Yeah,” Yuuri managed. “Okay.”

“Wait here.” Victor returned to the warehouse, where he made Yuuri’s and his excuses. He shrugged on his coat, and had Yuuri’s friend, Phichit, point out Yuuri’s. When he emerged onto the streets again, his legs almost tripped over Yuuri, who had taken to squatting by the entrance of the warehouse in his absence.

“Oh,” Victor stared.

“You look surprised,” Yuuri muttered, standing.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” Victor confessed. “Here,” he said, handing Yuuri the bottle of water he had snagged on his way out. “Feel better?”

Yuuri looked away.

They walked in silence to the main road, where Victor hailed them a cab. Yuuri turned his head towards him questioningly when Victor climbed into the backseat after him. “I thought you drove.”

“I’ll pick up my car tomorrow morning,” Victor shrugged. He nodded at Yuuri, then at the driver. “We’ll drop you off first.”

A small smile flitted across Yuuri’s lips. “Thanks,” he said, and rattled off a familiar address.

Victor blinked.

“Sorry,” Yuuri said again as the cab pulled away from the kerb. “I hope I didn’t make things difficult for you just now.”

Victor regarded him quizzically. “Difficult…?”

“You know. Rules about conduct between a TA and his student. That sort of thing.” Yuuri’s head remained lowered as he avoided meeting Victor’s eyes.

“I don’t think there was anything specific about that,” Victor mused. Deliberately, he turned his gaze towards the window instead, and watched blindly as the streetlamps and buildings rolled by. Yuuri’s head remained bowed in the dark glass.

“Oh,” Yuuri said weakly.

They did not speak for the rest of the ride.

The cab drew up in front of Victor’s dorm. There was a brief flurry of movement as they both reached for their wallets at the same time. “It’s my stop too,” Victor said, and took advantage of Yuuri’s surprise to pass the fare to the driver.

Yuuri’s expression was inscrutable when he joined Victor at the entrance of the dorm, where Victor buzzed them both in.

“We could forget about it, if you prefer,” Victor offered as they slipped through the doorway.

Yuuri’s head jerked up sharply. It was, Victor noted absently, the first time since they left the party that Yuuri was looking at him again.

“Anyway, the semester’s almost ending,” Victor continued in a rush as he led the way to the elevator lobby. “I won’t be your TA for much longer.”

A touch on his elbow stilled him.

“Do you have… someone else?” Yuuri voice was small.

“Maybe,” Victor confessed, and he could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “Kind of. Sort of. I don’t know. It’s not like we’re together or anything, but – ” He broke of abruptly. He knew, without looking, that Yuuri had gone still behind him.

“I understand.” Yuuri’s said quietly.  

Awkwardly, Victor stuck his hands into his pockets as he turned around. “And you?” he fumbled.

“I – ” Yuuri glanced away, his mouth twisting in a tight-lipped smile. “Maybe,” he echoed. “Kind of. Sort of. I don’t know.”

Suddenly, Victor realised that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled noisily. “Maybe we really should forget about this for now.” His laugh was rueful.

“Chalk it up to the alcohol,” Yuuri agreed, his smile relaxing. “Too much dancing.”

“And all those shared classes and tutoring sessions,” Victor added casually. “Prolonged close proximity, _et cetera_ , _et cetera_.”

“With the cutest TA on the campus,” Yuuri suggested, his tone almost impish. And, just like that, Victor could feel them easing back easing back into their well-worn grooves.  

He arched a brow. “Cutest TA? Really?”

“We did a poll,” Yuuri confided with mock-seriousness. “It was during class.”

“I should report all of you to Yakov,” Victor mock-threatened, and was pleased to see Yuuri laugh.   

They entered the elevator in a companionable silence. Yuuri’s floor, it turned out, was just below Victor’s.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” Victor said, as Yuuri’s hand hovered uncertainly over the panel of buttons. He watched as Yuuri blinked in surprise.

“This isn’t a date – ” Yuuri began stiffly, but Victor waved him off.

“Just to make sure you’re alright,” he insisted. “I mean, you were throwing up pretty badly just now.”

“I feel a bit better, actually,” Yuuri glared. He quelled, however, beneath Victor’s pointed look. “But I should probably lie down,” he conceded.

Victor smiled as he trailed Yuuri out of the elevator and down the corridor, slowing down when Yuuri came to a halt outside the fourth door on the right. Yuuri hesitated.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked, his hand on the door handle. “I could make us some tea. My family sent me some fancy green tea recently. And Phichit’s at the party, so he wouldn’t mind you being around, and…” He bit his lip. “I mean, I’m not trying to…”

“Sure,” Victor interjected smoothly. “Tea sounds great.”

Yuuri flashed a smile as he unlocked the door and let Victor in. He gestured Victor towards the left side of the room. Victor took the chair at what he presumed was Yuuri’s desk, while Yuuri bustled around, hanging up his coat before snatching a couple of mugs and tea tin off his bookshelf.

“Be right back,” he said, offering another smile as he hurried out of the room again, leaving Victor to his own devices.

Idly, Victor allowed his eyes to roam over the assortment of items on Yuuri’s desk. There were pens, papers. The expected textbooks, of course. Scribbled notes, typed essays. A laptop in the corner. And –

Curious now, Victor leaned forward in his seat. It appeared to be a book on Russian desserts. The book had been left open at a recipe for Napoleon cake, the glossy pages laid out on the table like the wings of a butterfly. Nestled in the dip between the pages, between the coloured photograph of the many-layered cake and the printed list of ingredients (eggs, flour, unsalted butter, sugar, cream), was an all-too-familiar note.

Victor was still holding onto the note when Yuuri returned.

“Sorry, I took a while,” Yuuri said as he sat the two mugs on his desk. “The common kitchen on this floor was crowded.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah.” Yuuri shrugged. “You know what the undergrad floors are like.” He picked up one of the mugs and took a sip, before setting it back down. “You’re lucky you’re living on a grad floor.”

“No shared rooms,” Victor responded automatically.

“And a quieter kitchen,” Yuuri said, his tone wistful. “I use it sometimes,” he confessed, his lips quirking as though sharing a secret. “Late at night, when I can’t sleep. I sneak up to bake.”

“Yuuri,” Victor said, and marvelled at the way his voice sounded even, “what’s this?”

Yuuri glanced down. Immediately, he flushed, and snatched the note from Victor’s nerveless fingers. Victor watched as Yuuri folded the note hastily, stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans. Yuuri was still blushing when he looked up again. “That’s private,” he snapped.

“Just now,” Victor pressed, “at the lift lobby, when I asked you – ”

“I think you had better go,” Yuuri interrupted, his tone firm. “Thanks for walking me to my room, Victor.” He turned away then, as though to make for the door.

“Yuuri,” Victor insisted quietly. He picked up one of the pens from Yuuri’s desk and setting its nib down on the nearest scrap of paper. “Yuuri,” he urged. “Look.”

Yuuri stilled.

=-=-=

“I’m almost done,” Victor announced cheerfully as he rinsed the last of the cake tins beneath the tap.

“How much cake do you want?” Yuuri asked.

“How about all of it?”

“Victor!”

Victor laughed. “What’s it this time, anyway?” he asked, setting the tin on the dish rack to dry. He wiped his hands on the dish cloth and turned around.

“ _Sachertorte_. Weren’t you listening?”

“It’s not my fault,” Victor pouted. “There was this hot baker in the kitchen, you see. He had an apron on. I was distracted.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. Still, he went easily enough when Victor held out his arms.

“You taste of chocolate,” Victor declared, many breathless moments later.

“So do you,” Yuuri murmured, and his smile was fond.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://erushi.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/erushi).
> 
> Come say hi!


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